‘I'm sorry. I'm so sorry that this happened.’ A young Sudanese woman repeated those words to me on Tuesday 9 June as we stood together in the Great Hall in Stormont, Belfast. She was at the Parliament Buildings doing work experience, and was apologising to me, on behalf of the entire Sudanese community in Northern Ireland. Standing outside the chamber, she repeated it, she kept saying it, as if the alleged actions of one man were somehow her responsibility to explain. It wasn't, but that's how she had been made to feel by too many of the people who are in positions of power, as well as the far-right who have stoked this tension.
Sign up for all of the latest stories. Start your day informed with Metro's News Updates newsletter or get Breaking News alerts the moment it happens. I told her she had done nothing to apologise for. It had been ten days since the recent Belfast riots had erupted around the city, and her words were a sobering reminder that when racism flares, the burden of explanation too often falls on those already carrying the weight of fear. But since the riots, we have come together as a community, and showed our support. This is the real Belfast – the one I know.
The Attack and Its Aftermath
It started with a vile attack on the evening of June 8, when Stephen Ogilvie was brutally attacked in North Belfast. The incident sent shockwaves through our society – the effect of which we're still feeling. For the last few summers, race riots have taken place on the streets of Northern Ireland. Tensions have been simmering beneath the surface: economic anxiety, social media algorithms amplifying the worst of us, malign actors – some foreign such as Elon Musk, some homegrown – deliberately stoking division. The migrant community watched and worried. They'd heard the rhetoric, knew the pattern, and when news of the attack emerged, many of us knew what might come next.
Within hours, social media posts were circulating with calls to protest, to wear black, and to ‘be prepared to fight or be arrested.’ What we saw on our streets was devastating – families fleeing in cars with whatever they could carry, police officers attacked, buses burned, and businesses destroyed. Commentators who'd never set foot in Northern Ireland suddenly decided we were a case study in far-right extremism and descended en masse. However, many of them missed the point entirely – what was happening in Belfast is not exclusive to Belfast. Racism thrives everywhere that it's allowed to grow, with riots taking place across England in recent years.
The Quiet Resistance
And what many didn't see were the women driving into the attacked areas under cover of darkness, pulling families to safety. Or churches opening their doors, neighbours delivering notes of support because knocking on doors didn't feel safe, food parcels being delivered, the WhatsApp groups organising protection. There was a quiet, dignified resistance from the community saying ‘not in our name.’ And while the rioters have withdrawn, this community remains.
I visited Anaka Women's Collective – a grassroots organisation dedicated to supporting women from minority ethnic and migrant backgrounds – in the days after the riots. Walking in, I saw what a real, immediate response looks like – it was being treated as the emergency that it was. There was no waiting for statutory agencies to mobilise, no committees or consultations. Women – many of them migrants themselves – had already organised safe spaces, coordinated welfare checks, distributed emergency supplies, provided counselling and legal advice. They understood the specific fears and needs of women and children who'd experienced trauma. They dealt with dignity, and at the pace this crisis required.
What struck me most was that Anaka did in days what government agencies typically take weeks to coordinate. There's a lesson there – grassroots organisations don't get bogged down in bureaucracy. They act; and when you're frightened, when you've barricaded your children inside, there is no time for debates and procedures. One woman told me she hadn't left her house for three days after the riots. When she finally ventured to the supermarket, two separate people approached her unprompted: ‘You are welcome here,’ they said.
Community Solidarity
Last Saturday, we held an anti-racism rally at City Hall and thousands showed up, including the Sudanese woman I met in Stormont earlier in the week. ‘My panic has gone’, she said looking at the solidarity on display. The Belfast Telegraph reported this week that migrant groups are praising the ‘overwhelmingly positive community response.’ From business groups to sports clubs, schools and faith communities, our community has been standing together against this hate. It's not hyperbole. Yes, there are still tensions; yes, there's still work to do – but something shifted. When an address list circulating online threatened migrant families, the community didn't stand by – they stepped up and stood by them. When businesses needed rebuilding, people showed up. When silence might have been safer, people spoke out.
Reflections on Empathy
I think often about Anna Lo, the first and only Minority Ethnic MLA Northern Ireland has ever elected. She would have turned 76 this week. She was fearless, and she would have been outspoken about what happened. But I think – in fact, I know – she would have been moved by what came after. Northern Ireland's superpower has always been empathy. We've earned it through pain, and right now, that empathy is doing what empathy does best: it's healing.
